


Us

by FreeShavocadoo



Category: The Wire
Genre: Deteriorating Relationships, Introspection, M/M, Past and Present, Weird Relationship Dynamics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-28
Updated: 2020-03-28
Packaged: 2021-02-28 19:28:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,821
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23362468
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreeShavocadoo/pseuds/FreeShavocadoo
Summary: He could walk through every side street, every alley and back again without getting lost and that was the way it was meant to be for him. It’s not as if he’d tread those streets for all of those years, the adrenaline of bullets flying past his ear and sirens always in the imminent distance to suddenly forget where he came from.Where they came from.
Relationships: Avon Barksdale/Stringer Bell
Comments: 7
Kudos: 12





	Us

Looking out of the window, he could pretend like none of it meant shit.

The concrete spanning for miles, derelict rowhouses and street corners you’d walk on and over a thousand times, until the likely day you’d die by bleeding out on one.

He could walk through every side street, every alley and back again without getting lost and that was the way it was meant to be for him. It’s not as if he’d tread those streets for all of those years, the adrenaline of bullets flying past his ear and sirens always in the imminent distance to suddenly forget where he came from.

Where _they_ came from.

When he’d met String, the boy had a bad temper and an attitude to match it. Most guys round their way couldn’t stand String’s indifference to them, the way he’d stare through people like they were invisible just to get a reaction out of them.

Nobody had challenged Avon since he was about five, and even his own mom gave up on schooling him after a certain time, knowing too well that he was treading the path every man in his family had before him.

They’d been dumb motherfuckers back then, though, and they’d both be the first to admit it.

From Avon stealing corner boy's packages whilst String distracted them, to them joyriding in a Police car and barely managing to make an escape, to String getting fucking arrested over small time thieving.

Avon had been fighting since he was young, boxing had been what his mom had rested all of her hopes in, praying he’d have a career that didn’t involve lead and cash.

He’s always felt like his story had been written long before he’d even shown up in it, though. Then again, maybe it’d started when a 11-year old String, too tall and scrawny, had ambled on over to him like they’d always been brothers.

It was always two steps forward, three steps back with them.

Bey didn’t need telling twice ever, barely needed telling at all, and he’d be on whatever Avon asked him to do with no questions.

But Bey was muscle, and Avon still didn’t know exactly what String was beyond being his right-hand and the thorn in his side.

It wasn’t like Avon didn’t see the genius in him. Hell, they both came up with shit that’d been radical back then. They wouldn’t have gotten the towers Avon had been fixated on since he was a little shit laughing the faces of the now ‘has beens’ otherwise.

Jessop changed everyone who went in, everybody knew that.

The problem was you just couldn’t tell how much until it was too late.

String had always been Avon’s problem, but before he’d gotten arrested, it was a problem he’d loved having. Sharp stares over glasses Avon would rather die than wear himself, stupid-ass quotes about economics like he was about to up and leave to become a lecturer.

He knew String better than he knew the curve of a basketball in his hand, or the thud of a punching bag under his gloved fist. Just thinking about him, it was like he could feel the warmth of his skin, always bordering on feverish, and see String’s eyes in one of the few situations where they were uncertain.

String never did understand that it wasn’t all about gangster shit for Avon, it wasn’t just about catching bullets and dropping bodies.

It was about what they’d built together.

The towers, the pit, the corners. They’d sweated over getting them for years, going against hard motherfuckers to get where they needed to be, creating a system that was fucking impeccable and a work ethic a white man would never need or know.

They’d done it as a pair, or more realistically, a single unit.

When String used to mouth off shit about creating something for themselves, Avon could convince himself that his vision was the same as Strings, that building something meant the high rises, the avenues, not fucking real estate.

He’d find himself in his off moments watching String over a glass of whisky, eyes narrowed as String runs a highlighter back and forth over his economics books, wondering where exactly Avon fits into his vision for the future.

His business cards might say B&B enterprises, but they’d never been further apart than they had now.

“What?”

Unlike Orlando’s, which even at downtime usually had the thud of bass reverberating off the walls, the funeral home is eerily quiet as String’s eyes analyse him.

Avon wonders what he’s seeing.

“You and your fuckin’ books, man.” Avon huffs, sipping at his drink.

It’s inoffensive, compared to what he wants to scream at him.

This conversation was as historic as eastside versus westside for them, and String with narrowed eyes and pursed lips usually stepped back, with statements that implied he’d eventually win Avon over onto his side of legitimacy.

Nothing about them or their relationship fitted legitimacy.

“Not my fault I can read.” String says, with a smile that seems too stiff and eyes that watch him too carefully.

If he’d have known how much Jessop would’ve cost him, he’d have done everything to avoid it. But here he is, staring with malicious longing at a man who seems hellbent on abandoning Avon and leaving him to stand in the ruins and rubble where their high rises had once stood.

Their empire was crumbling beneath them bit by bit, and Avon seemed to be the only one who gave a shit about it.

“You remember when we got our first tower?” Avon asks, snapping his gaze away from String and to the dull-ass ceiling instead, reminded instantly of his prison cell.

“Yeah,” String puts his highlighter down, his eyes glazed over in reminiscence, too, “you were practically high on that shit, that night.”

“Ain’t like I was the only one.”

_The thudding from the apartment is running through all of the furniture, pulsing against the sofa Avon is sprawled across, drink in hand. He lets his fingertips rest on the beat for a while, tapping along as he watches droves of guys stream in and out of the door, some acknowledging him and others just enjoying the party._

_He can hear Bey laughing in the distance, see his wild gestures as he entertains a small group with a recollection of a gunfight he’d had recently._

_He must be shitfaced if he’s talking about that._

_Avon receives some claps on the back of acknowledgement, a few comments here and there of unfamiliar faces trying to make their mark on an up-and-comer._

_The only person he gives a shit about has just breezed by the door anyway, and before he can even process what he’s doing, his Timberlands are treading the long walk down the high-rise stairs into the bitter air after String._

_String hears him before he even announces himself._

_“Shouldn’t you be upstairs enjoyin’ your party, B?” His hands are in his pockets as he stares into the distance, at what, Avon isn’t exactly sure._

_“Shouldn’t you?” Avon walks to stand beside him, close enough to touch but not quite. “It’s **our** party.”_

_He can’t help it if his correction sounds aggressive. The amount of time they’d spent just getting one of these towers was too long for Avon’s liking, even if the others were likely to follow soon._

_Sometimes he thinks String regrets the day he approached Avon, the day he was sucked into Avon’s laidback aggression, determination and charm. He hears the way everyone talks about String when they think he isn’t listening, about what String would be doing without Avon, shit like being some bigtime businessman._

_It doesn’t scare him that String could’ve had a successful life if he hadn’t met Avon. It scares him that he wouldn’t have had a successful life without String._

_He’d have gotten the towers without him, and he’d have started his empire without him. But he wouldn’t be looking to his side every other second of the day for String’s opinion, or laughing at String’s attempts at boxing, or finding a sense of accomplishment because they’d gotten here together._

_When he stares at the horizon, he can see String in a fancy suit with his ridiculous glasses, eyeing up property and reading his newspaper in some white café in downtown Baltimore._

_Where the fuck does Avon fit into any of that?_

_“Yeah, you right,” String turns to face him, staring at Avon like he’s the only person he actually sees, eyes crinkled, “us.”_

_“Us.” Avon’s knuckles brush against String’s and his stomach is doing backflips, fingers twitching when String moves towards the lights of the high-rise to go back inside._

_His fingers grasp onto String’s hoodie with alarming strength, pulling him back to Avon’s side where he’s meant to be._

_“Promise me you ain’t gonna leave.”_

_The words make him feel weak as fuck, like some needy bitch who’s crying at her man to stay even though he’s been with damn near every woman on the block. But he’s never ran away from a fight, and he stares at String with such intensity that for once, String looks away momentarily before returning his gaze._

_“Why the fuck would I do that?” He huffs, staring down at Avon’s hand fisted in his hoodie with an odd combination of softness and uncertainty._

_“That ain’t a promise, String.” Avon’s tone is the same one he uses when he’s giving orders to Bey, or reprimanding String for trying to duck out of a fight that’s inevitable. It’s not far from the dynamic they have right this second._

_String’s voice cracks._

_“I promise.”_

_Avon doesn’t really give a shit who moved first, but String’s hands are on him with such intent that his promise is etched all over Avon’s skin and under his clothes, the ghost of Avon’s name fanning across his neck as String moves feverishly between there and Avon’s mouth, closing any distance between them and fulfilling every need Avon has ever had, like the dutiful companion he is._

“Ain’t like it was back then.” String takes his glasses off, rubbing at tired eyes and giving Avon a weary stare, like he’s some caged dog that’s been brought in his office that he doesn’t know what to do with.

Avon longs for the feeling of String’s hands on him, scouring his skin and burning it of all doubt, craves his mouth and all of the certainty and comfort that comes with it. He was meant to be beneath Avon, always.

_Us._

The fact that he knows a lecture about avoiding death and acting like a gangster is coming on, though, and wipes the memory of String from beneath his fingertips from his memory, allowing himself one last thought of Avon’s name coming from String’s mouth like a lifeline, before he settles his gaze on String with an air of finality.

“Nah. _We_ ain’t.”

**Author's Note:**

> I fucking love this pairing and all of the angst that comes with it. I'd love any feedback!


End file.
